


Chapter 18

by Pthithia



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Jealously, Kissing, M/M, POV Patroclus, scene reimagining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:59:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6019690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will never tire of kissing him. I feel as though each nerve in my body is on fire, my blood racing, my heart pounding. I feel alive, as if his ethereal vitality can somehow purge me and bring me back to life, make me young again. I know it's not true. Achilles is vibrant and strong and handsome and young. I am tired, haggard, weak, ugly. No amount of godly blood will change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter 18

**Author's Note:**

> I was rereading TSoA and the way Patroclus has just become accustomed to having his feelings bulldozed just gave me rage, so I wrote this to make up for it. It's basically a reimagining of Agamemnon's wedding proposal to Achilles for Iphigenia. As always, this is unbeta'd, so any and all feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

Then we hear more - this daughter is being brought from Mycenae not just for the ceremony, but for marriage to one of the kings. Weddings are always propitious, pleasing to the gods; perhaps this too will help.

Agamemnon summons Achilles and me to his tent. His face looks rumpled and swollen, the skin of a man who has not been sleeping. His nose is still red with rash. Beside him sits Odysseus, cool as ever.

Agamemnon clears his throat. "Prince Achilles. I have called you here with a proposition. Perhaps you have heard that-" He stops, clears his throat again. "I have a daughter, Iphigenia. I would wish her to be your wife."

We stare. Achilles' mouth opens, closes.

Odysseus says, "Agamemnon offers you a great honor, Prince of Phthia."

Achilles stutters, a rare clumsiness. "Yes, and I thank him." His eyes go to Odysseus, and I know what he is thinking: What of Deidameia? Achilles is already married, as Odysseus well knows.

But the king of Ithaca nods, slight so that Agamemnon will not see. We are to pretend that the princess of Scyros does not exist.

"I am honored that you would think of me," Achilles says, hesitating still. His eyes flicker to me, in a question.

Odysseus sees, as he sees everything. "Sadly, you will only have a night together before she must leave again. Though of course, much may happen in a night." He smiles. No one else does.

"It will be good, I believe, a wedding," Agamemnon's words come slowly. "Good for our families, good for the men." He does not meet our gaze.

Achilles is waiting for my answer; he will say no if I wish it. Jealousy pricks.

I have lost him several times over, I have accepted the son he has and his unwilling marriage to Deidameia. I have forgiven his faults and his arrogance. I cannot give him this. He is looking at the fire outside the tent, eyes far away, deep in thought. I notice I am staring, and realize with all my heart that I do not want him to marry the princess. I hate having to share him: I must give him to the war, but I will not give him to another woman.

Yet I cannot tell him what to do.

He turns to look at me again as Agamemnon and Odysseus watch closely. The second our eyes meet I turn away from him. I know he must marry the girl, to please Artemis and Agamemnon, and if he looks in my eyes he will see the envy and jealousy and anger, palpable and raw, and he will say no. I cannot influence his decision.

I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, trying to read my thoughts. I am almost surprised he cannot after all our time together. I bite my lip and stay silent.

I see Achilles offer his hand. "I accept, Agamemnon. I will be proud to name you father-in-law."

My eyes flutter closed.

Agamemnon takes his hand. He clears his throat, a third time. "Iphigenia," he says, almost sadly, "is a good girl."

"I am sure she is," Achilles says. "I will be honored to have her as my wife."

It is too much for me to take. I stand, rushed, seeing the eyes of three men on me. I look at none of them as I swiftly exit the tent. If Achilles' eyes follow me as I leave, I do not feel them.

I stand on the coastline of craggy rocks, just at the water's edge, mine and Achilles' tent in sight behind me, just on the edge of the camp. I am looking out at the water, the waves, the ocean. I am thinking of blue earrings with silver wire, babies with red hair, princesses with sharp tongues, heavy dresses torn down the front.

I do not hear him approach. I never hear him.

He stands beside me, silent for a moment. Then he speaks. "I would have said no, if you asked me to." I stay quiet. "Why did you look away?"

I turn. His green eyes bore into mine, sad and unhappy. "It was not my place, Achilles," I say softly.

"Your place? You make no sense, Patroclus. Since we were boys we have been nothing but the closest of friends, advisors, companions. I trust no one but you in this world. Why could you not tell me how you feel?"

The words come out of me before I know that they are meant. "I said nothing because it is not for me to tell you what to do, Achilles! I know you value my opinion, but it doesn't matter anymore! Not here! Aristos Achaion cannot be taking orders from some lowly exiled foot soldier if he wishes to keep his sway and pomp! We are no longer children, and you have to know when to do the right thing on your own, without me having to tell you!" I am shouting at the end of my speech, and Achilles only looks at me, the sadness strong on his beautiful features. I have made Achilles sad. I wish I could retract my words, draw them back from the air as if they were never said. I know they cut deep. I didn't mean them to.

He closes the distance between us quickly, his mouth on mine before I can even close my eyes. I sigh into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his waist as he tangles his hands in my hair.

I will never tire of kissing him. I feel as though each nerve in my body is on fire, my blood racing, my heart pounding. I feel alive, as if his ethereal vitality can somehow purge me and bring me back to life, make me young again. I know it's not true. Achilles is vibrant and strong and handsome and young. I am tired, haggard, weak, ugly. No amount of godly blood will change that.

This slips my mind as he deepens the kiss, breaking off quickly every so often to take a deep, shaky breath before seizing my lips again. For now, it's enough.

I pull away from him after a while, the unease returned. Iphigenia. A tripping name, the sound of goat hooves on rock, quick, lively, lovely. He looks at me in concern. I wrap my arms around him again, but instead of kissing him I pull him in for a quick, tight embrace, my head nestled in the crook of his neck. He puts his arms around me, and we stand like that on the beach in the moonlight.

Finally I let him go and walk to our tent, fading into the shadows, leaving him alone on the beach. When I know that I am far enough that not even his eyes can see me, I turn again to look at him.

He is watching my retreating figure, one hand on his hip, the other resting at his side. It is a stupid pose, a human pose. I watch as he turns to the water, crouching to the ground. He picks up a stone and chucks it into the water. It skips perfectly across the surface, just the way I taught him when we were young. He is still after this. I continue to the tent. I have nothing more to say.


End file.
